


all hearts supposed dead

by blueparacosm



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Character Study, F/F, Little bit of fluff at the end, M/M, angst with a somewhat happy ending, bellamy puts him back together, emori dies, mostly prose poetry, murphy falls apart, pure angst, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-02-06
Packaged: 2018-09-22 07:58:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9594614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueparacosm/pseuds/blueparacosm
Summary: The girl with the shame for hands and sunlight for skin bled love onto his trembling hands, and onto her chest, and onto everything. Then the earth she stole from stole her right back, and the boy with the daggers for eyes and molten lava for blood split in half right before everyone’s very eyes.He’s not sure why it happens. Why the worlds that deserve most to go out with a bang always end in a whimper.





	

**Author's Note:**

> listened to [nuvole bianche by ludovico einaudi](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fEOJQawykD0) on repeat to get into the mood of the first part of this, and for the second part i listened to [atlas: touch by sleeping at last](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PT8Z7C90UNs) for the ending/epilogue bit. in case you wanted some fitting music to read to. :)
> 
> thanks so much for giving this a looksie

 

He’s not sure why it happens.

Why the worlds that deserve most to go out with a bang always end in a whimper.

It was a Monday, maybe. It could have been a Tuesday. He knew it was morning because the sky was still gray and tired and only had one eye open, because it had heard the news. Every tree leaned forward to breathe in the whispers, the ground shifted underneath them to make room for the blood. Everyone took out their hearts and clutched them in their hands for safe-keeping, warm and fast and alive.

Everything she wasn’t.

Bellamy’s stomach twisted, his head pounded between the well-meaning but crushing vise of empathy.

The boy with the daggers for eyes and molten lava for blood split in half right before everyone’s very eyes.

The girl with the shame for hands and sunlight for skin bled love onto his trembling hands, and onto her chest, and onto everything. And then the earth she stole from stole her right back.

And the whimper it ended in was not hers, but his.

Murphy sinks not to the ground, but into it. His body crumples like forgotten paper, bones folding and his pale skin glistening as it melts over them until he is nothing more than a shaking, unrecognizable puddle of grief. The most pitiful form of himself that he has ever taken.

And the sky closes an eye, nudging a thin-spread mass of cloud before the curious sun, because it can’t bear to see this anymore than the departing crowd can.

Bellamy spares an empty look over his shoulder as the audience of Arkers retreats, and he feels his soul going with, before a lung-piercing gasp rips him back into place. The boy, his ally, his... friend. Murphy drops his head to the corpse’s stomach and threads his hands into hair and pulls, hard, trying to ground himself, or hurt himself, or both.

A gentle hand finds his shoulder.

Clarke blinks up at him, and then returns her gaze to the broken scene in front of them, eyes wet with sympathy for her friend in the clearing. His people materialize behind her.

Bellamy heaves in a shuddering breath. “Get the other body out of here,” he commands, ice framing the edges of his heart, and Monty, alongside Miller and Bryan, make their way for the body of the attacker, the girl’s blood painting his face in haphazard splatters, his own blood blooming out from the center of his stomach like a gaping-mouthed demon.

The air stills, every moth holding its breath, every blade of grass at attention, the migrating clouds freezing in place and falling to the ground under gravity’s new and improved weight-- as a broken scream the size of every heartbreak in the past, present and future manifests, tears through the witnesses like a hurricane with teeth. Murphy’s head falls back on his shoulders when he’s finished, when his body is clean and emptied for the next wave of violent, raw emotion, and everyone hides their hearts back in their chests because they sure as hell aren’t safer out here in the storm.

Bellamy looks to Raven, whose eyes flicker to the ground as she turns and drags herself back to camp, the weight on her shoulders and hips looking heavier by the step. Clarke moves in the opposite direction, towards the eye of it all, the stack of glass shards (boy) dividing into smaller and smaller pieces by the minute (dying), only because she is tethered to the tears of every being on Earth.

The older man’s breath hitches. “Let me do this,” he whispers, courage faltering as she raises an eyebrow, gesturing towards the boy who’s got his hands buried in the dirt and is probably tearing up the whole ground underneath them as they speak. He nods. “It’s better if I do.”

Clarke’s eyes flicker around his face before finding a home just above his heart, and she pats him there encouragingly. It says, _“I’m afraid for you.”_

And then she floats out of the clearing on feather-light feet, ever a princess and ever a ghost.

Bellamy can see the young brunet’s soul crawling out from his chest and spreading over his tortured throat. It’s blue, and it’s orange, and it’s yellow, and it’s red, and it’s green and it’s purple and it’s black and it’s broken and it’s everything and it’s _choking_ him, so Bellamy walks.

He walks until the ground is shaking under his feet because Murphy is carrying his own earthquake all the time and God it must be getting heavy. He falls under the force of the vibrations, to his knees by the side of the fizzling meteorite who fell out of the sky and only burned himself on the way down-- and then got buried.

Murphy looks to him with a broken face like a Picasso painting, all twisted and pink and angry, angry, angry.

Bellamy folds his hands in his lap and looks down at the girl with the face tattoo, hazel eyes cracked wide-open and emptier than all of deep space. He reaches--

A hand with prison bars for fingers wraps around his wrist faster than Bellamy can register the passing of any time, and Murphy croaks, “Don’t touch her,” before his iron grip melts away.

Bellamy stretches his hand back out anyway, and Murphy is too startled by his disobedience and wracked with grief to think about his next move, when suddenly she has fingertips for eyelids and that deep, deep space is sealed off and trapped in her still-warm body, and Bellamy can hear Murphy’s shredded heart shift slightly back into place as he watches him close her eyes.

And then he shatters.

The boy falls against him like the ocean has spilled over because the moon told it to and Bellamy doesn’t know what to do with his hands as Murphy breaks and leaves fragments of himself in Bellamy’s clothes and metallic slivers in his freckled skin. “I can’t-” he whimpers, a blood-soaked hand weaving into the older man’s ribs as Murphy clutches his shirt and shakes, maybe crying, maybe convulsing, maybe dying.

“I know, I know,” Bellamy promises, soft and syllables disjointed, because he does, and finds his wax-museum hands awakening and wrapping around the boy, one pulling him closer, securing him by the waist. The other finds sanctuary in his knotted hair, shielding them from the troubled gravity that could probably pluck them from the dirt like wilting daisies and carry them into deep space with the dead girl’s eyes if they weren’t careful.

The plaything of Loss’s pours himself into Bellamy’s open hands as he cries, a splotchy cheek on his shoulder and knitted brows against his neck, and the man’s heart aches as Murphy’s grief cuts into him like thousands of notched, rusting knives, because that pain is too familiar to be anything but dull. He has felt this, and he knows Murphy has felt it more, he does. And he is tired. They are both so goddamn tired.

Murphy loved her. And when Murphy loves, he loves hard.

And Bellamy loved his mother. And he loved every one of Octavia’s many souls. And he loved everyone who has ever died and everyone he has ever met and even the people he’s never come across and never will because his heart is just too damn big not to.

And if Bellamy’s heart is the ocean, Murphy’s is deep, deep space and everything past that. And Bellamy’s been needing a place vast enough to divide his heart inside of.

“She was-” he fights with his lungs, “-she was all I had,” his voice cracks as he nears a fourth edge. “I- I’m done,” he whispers, eyes closed tight against the sting of a sudden February wind trying to steal away his words and give them to the trees.

Bellamy shifts to face him, their knees pressed together and threatening to blend as Murphy shivers, the raven-haired man’s hands spread over his shoulders like weights to hold him to the earth. “You wish.”

And when Murphy looks at him, blue, blue, blue and all mist and fear and pain and searing anger, he finds a little bit of love still left in the cracks.

And Bellamy has enough to fill in the rest.

 

***

 

“How’s he holding up?”

Umber eyes sewn atop dotted skin flicker down to the milky hand in his palm, white-knuckled fingers snaked through his own. They float up to those parted peach lips and that blade-sharp nose and those dark, cynical eyes even in sleep and those spider-legs for hair-- that Picasso painting for a face.

Murphy sleeps for the first time in four days with his shoulder-blades kissing Bellamy’s chest, the freckled man’s sheets tucked underneath them, the freckled man’s walls shielding them from the eyes of the unforgiving Earth, the freckled man’s heart beating near out of his chest even in the fifth hour, all as he reminds himself this is all just part of the mourning process, that’s all.

The golden-haired chess piece in his doorway has a look that says otherwise, that this was meant for them all along, maybe, because Clarke thinks she knows everything, and Bellamy shrugs, doubt in his eyes and hope on his lips and a little less empty space in his ocean heart.

“I think he’ll be alright.”

 

 

_fin._

 

**Author's Note:**

> how bad was it


End file.
